From what do my letters to You spring? During the course of my days, one thing or another leads me to think about something in a more than casual way. It may stem from something I’ve seen or heard, but most often it is from something I read. Then there occurs a compulsion to share my thoughts with You even more than one would share them with a best friend or spouse. This compulsion and the writing of a letter that follows are, in my journey, ultra-strong connections to the realities of life and, hence, to You.
When I go back and read the letters they re-connect me and make me think again, not only about what I wrote but about how You communicate with me through these letters. The fact that I have grown so much to love writing to You regularly makes me wonder at times if I am not simply engaging in an exercise of self-aggrandizement and pride. The fact that I’d like to share these letters further leads me to think there’s still too much of me and my pride in them and hence I try to mollify that by convincing myself that they could be shared anonymously. Besides, I am coming to the conclusion that they are far too personal to be of any interest to a general audience. The only thing is, I can’t get out of my head the words of Henri Nouwen about what is most personal being most universal and I think that what You have spoken to me through my pen might, in some way, be beneficial to another.
I do not usually bend peoples’ ears with my problems – even those very close to me. Maybe I should. It might be therapeutic. I would rather be a good listener than a good talker. The only exception is these letters to You in which I feel no hesitation in pouring my heart out with its innermost feelings. The huge perk that’s attached to this is that through these letters I believe I also listen to You. Maybe it’s my own pride-filled imagination, but I believe these letters to be
reciprocal. Right now and in the foreseeable future I cannot imagine my not writing and listening to You. I only pray that my writing does not get in the way of my listening.